“There were trees everywhere”.

It was night, medicine and I wandered about the grounds anxiously. Pedro was late. Always late, buy cialis Pedro. For shame.

 I cursed, ailment and spat out that little Mexican’s name.

The bomb would go off soon and Pedro was nowhere to be found. There were trees everywhere. And bushes. Where did all this shrubbery come from, I wondered. And where was Pedro. If I had some shears, and some gardening clothes, I could cut a fucking maze into these grounds, inviting passageways, blind alleys, junctions and vortices. 

PishuI could sell tickets. Get all the kids and their dogs to come, and they would say “Bravo, Pishu, Bravo!” We would sell candy and take pictures and all the corn-maze people would be jealous. They would steal in under cover, bringing shears and blow torches and defoliant, stretching their plasticized faces over perfect-toothed liar’s smiles. They would cut egresses and dig tunnels, aping my masterpiece; leaving piles of dogshit for unsuspecting grandmothers to discover as they lean back on the freshly mown lawn to enjoy their picnic lunches.

They would destroy my creation with their jealously, their jack-boot morality, and I, in return would—

Wait. Movement. A odd shape bobbling amongst hedges in the shadow of the palace grounds. A sombrero.

It was Pedro.


Strange German

 “He raised his arms mechanically, methodically, slowly unfurled…”

Again, it was night. Night, night, always night.

I made my way down a dimly lit cobblestone street in the town in the shadow of the castle.

I made my way through the strange festive crowd, sweaty-browed white-legged men and their big-haired wives and cackling sisters-in-law, Irish dancers fresh from their show, all tight-pantsed and kicky, the Spanish Girls National Basketball team, and expensive-shoed men with colorful sombreros and dark, serious mustachioes.

A gentleman, a small German man, was studying the party-goers intently.

“That dance,” he muttered to his impossibly tall companion, his words like evenly-hitched rail-cars leaking out the side of his expressionless mouth.


He raised his arms mechanically, methodically, slowly unfurled, but not outstretched; his hands like spades on the arms of a clock, a strange preying mantis timepiece, starting at ten o’clock and midnight, then moving around slowly, searching, in the air in front of his friend, catlike, probing and testing, as if through a freshly cut corn or perhaps tall grass maze, all the while his tight black shiny pants creaking, and tight black shiny shoes moving not in unison to those European mantis-catlike arms, but in some strange mathematically complementary pattern, searching out the secret of cool as if it were transmitted through the very ground itself.

And in locked gaze, his companion mirrored each move—no—countered it, challenged it—a midnight duel devoid of weapons, musical or otherwise.

With each movement and countermovement came an adjustment, a new course correction; the addition of a slight flourish with the left hand, a hip shift right.

Should the roof be raised—are they raising it—should we raise the roof—yes, we must raise the roof.

It was a constant scientific dissection, digestion, integration, redistribution of collective cacophonic electricity. They were a well-engineered leather-clad fun-machine unleashing the year’s frustrations on a strange street, in a strange town, under the anonymity of night.

“I’ve  got him.” I whispered into the transceiver, coolly making my way down the alley in the town in the shadow of the castle.



Small rocks and Butterflies

Today I spent the day throwing small rocks at butterflies.

Small, therapy because throwing large rocks is overkill, and besides that, somewhat tiring.

I made some calculations, F=ma, and others.

But brute force number crunching and esoteric mathematics offered few practical solutions.

I just kept missing those smug little bastards.

Except this one, who took a small oblong stone straight on the thorax,

sending it reeling through the air,

reeling backwards into lens-flared unknown,

backwards in time,

to right what had once went wrong

hoping that with each small-rock-thorax-impact,

the next leap

would be the leap home.


Zombies and Cauliflower

Once again it was night. Night had fallen.

Well, search not so much fallen

as crept in, medstore  

first pretending to be late afternoon, all non-chalant and don’t worry about the long shadows, that’s just an illusion like when the moon seems so very very big, but it’s not really, don’t trust your eyes it’s always the same size regardless, trust the scientists (sorry about the zombie apocalypse, our bad, true, but it was just the one time);

then masquerading as twilight, and not that kind of twilight, the kind that says it’s not really twilight despite that sparkly emo dude with the lipstick and that other kid all ab-y and wolfy and that plaid girl with OMG eyebrows tipping up, then dipping slowly in tandem, capsizing into a sea of teenage underexpression:

eyeroll down/head tilt left/micro-gape/,

which team shirt do I wear;

should I wear a shirt;

Yes, I’ll wear a shirt;

and finally full on-night, no apologies, no “Sorry, I was just joking about it not being night, it really is night, so very sorry here’s a coupon redeemable at Cooks and Franni’s, home of world famous cauliflower sauerkraut.”

No. It was night. It was on.


The thing about Cauliflower.

Not just any cauliflower, but the kind of cauliflower you could write a novel about. Its floral brocade inspired temporary thoughts of online dictionary cross-referencing of the words “floral” and “brocade”; image searches and comparisons of similarly intriguing vegetables and their mysterious real-world doppelgangers.

That Sunday night I had discovered a new use for cauliflower. You see, zombies like to eat brains. They go apeshit for that stuff. No one knows why, but that doesn’t matter because chances are if you’ve stopped to think about why zombies eat brains,



A zombie has eaten your brain.

It’s interesting about cauliflower though. You see, I used to be really into math. They used to call me “Mathies” at school, and however imaginative and downright bizarre that may have been for a junior high sobriquet, the name stuck. Everyone was coming to me about “e” and volumes of rotation, and fourier transforms. And of course kicking me in the testicles.

I didn’t care much about the fame. And I really wasn’t the math guy they thought I was. I did like chaos, however. Not the kind of chaos inspired by the zombie apocalypse, but true chaos, the pure mathematics of describing complexity in a manner digestible by our human brains.

Take a cauliflower. Look at the surface, its lobes and ripples. Hey wait—it has a (brain) stem. Look at the surface again, check the fringe under a microscope—more mini-cauliflower shapes with lobes and ripples and stems. Check out one of those microscopic cauliflowers. Lobes, ripples, stems. Again and again, all the way down past the limit of detection. An underlying order to chaos. Here’s an equation to descri—

Oh. A zombie has eaten your brain. Next time, don’t ponder the equation–have your shotgun ready.

Or some cauliflower.



All this time, no one was sipping iced tea and intellectualizing the zombie apocalypse. No one wanted to get to know the zombie, understand its motivation in this scene or that.

Fuck that.

We just needed to get out. We ran. We hid. We fought. We sacrificed our own. We thought, but only two steps ahead. One steamboat, two steamboat. All there was time for.

Yet here I was, cornered in the produce section of Cooks and Franni’s,


Thinking about why the cauliflower section had become so much more interesting to the zombies than eating my brain.

In this final two-steamboat countdown before the last pass, was Math actually relevant? Were zombies also somehow consumed with or consumed by true chaos?

Or did cauliflower just look like brains, and zombies were just really, really stupid.

It didn’t matter anyways. Because Lizbeth was back. And instead of cauliflower, she had a shotgun.

“Mathies.” She spat my name out derisively, with flecks of spittle leaking from the corners of her sad, angry, beautiful mouth.

Then she sank a sand-bucket’s worth of shot into the first zombie’s head detonating it like a fresh cantaloupe run under a bus.

“Quit stalling and get those supplies, you idiot!”

I lurched forward as if smacked in the back of the head with a tennis racket. I scanned the aisles for Toiletries. There’s a funny thing about toiletries—

“Go!” she screamed, pulling out an incendiary grenade.

I proceeded to Toiletries.



A second post

Just to check out where a second post ends up. Really, the first post got it all out there. Now it’s up to the second post to keep it going. No press. Thought I’d maybe add a random image too, you know. But I wonder if I can get it to wrap. It may just not happen. I guess I have to keep typing and see what happens. Okay. This works a bit. I’ll just keep on typing until wee get all the way down past the bottom of the image and then we’ll see what happens to the text, if it wraps or whut up homes.

Chapter 0: The Zeroth Spy

On Monday, find  she had accused me of Treachery.

“I have spies” she said.

“Spies for my spies. Spies who spy on my spies”.

“In fact, viagra 100mg ” I said casually, medicine “I know this. How could you not, in this business. You have to keep current or else it gets embarrassing. But take it from me, your Number One Spy. I had nothing to do with this.”

She laughed, ever so slightly, then regarded me with a strange probing head-tilt.

She had been leaning against her desk, half sitting, half standing. In one smooth movement she sat up on the desktop, with perfect knees emerging from that delicate black skirt, one leg crossed over the other, one pump dangling archly on hidden, forbidden toes. Now she shifted her weight slightly, reaching back to get a bright green folder from the top of a pile of bright green folders by her in basket. She opened the folder up and leafed through the contents. She informed me that she had a spy even higher up than me.

A Number Zero Spy. A Zeroth Spy.

 I clenched my jaw and ripples ran through my face, setting my glasses afloat on fleshy waves of uncertainty. The room began to heave about, and I attempted to calmly level my field of vision.

“You have a Zeroth Spy,” I scoffed.

 I placed my hand on top of the leather chair in a vain attempt to appear unaffected. My arm was a toothpick trembling to support my teetering countenance.

“I have no time for this Zeroth Spy Talk. I tire of this.” I turned to go.

And then:

 “Elizabeth is my Zeroth Spy.”

 Well I had just told Elizabeth everything.

The smug satisfaction of my previous evening with Lizbeth began morphing into a stinging sweat that crept slowly up my neck and into my hairline.

“Elizabeth, you say.” She hadn’t seemed in any way a Zeroth Spy to me.


I inched for the door.